---
Night came down like a soft lid on East House. Lamps in the corridor burned low. The wall painting's river went dark and slow. John checked the latch, checked the slate with his schedule one more time, and sat on the edge of Bed B to unlace his boots.
The door opened hard.
Ray Flame slipped inside, tried to close it gently, failed, and winced at his own noise. He looked wrecked. Hair wild. Collar wrong. A red line of warden ink across his slate token that said "SEE OFFICE" in tidy letters. The fake mustache was mostly scrubbed off, but the mushroom shadow still haunted his cheek like a ghost who refused to leave the party.
He did not look at John. He kicked off his boots and missed the corner; one boot hit the wall, bounced, and landed under the desk. He stared at it like it had insulted his mother.
